


far beneath the bitter snows

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Auction, Cock Cages, Dirty Talk, Electrocution, Genital Piercing, Genital Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Nipple Piercing, Piss, Public Humiliation, Sexual Slavery, Slut Shaming, Sounding, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: After the explosion of the Swiss base--after blinding-bright fire and ash thick as a carpet, heat strong enough to melt him away until only his bones remained--Gabriel Reyes wakes under fluorescent lights, surrounded by people he doesn’t recognize.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiam007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiam007/gifts).



> a commission for tiam007 on tumblr <3

After the explosion of the Swiss base--after blinding-bright fire and ash thick as a carpet, heat strong enough to melt him away until only his bones remained--Gabriel Reyes wakes under fluorescent lights, surrounded by people he doesn’t recognize.

The first thing he knows is that he _hurts_ ; that there’s a pounding in his head in time to his heartbeat, pulsing all the way down his aching bones to the very tips of his hands and feet. He feels like he’s caught in a fog, like his body isn’t really solid but instead something else, some kind of thick mist that floats above the table he’s stretched out on. 

There’s voices around him, he realizes dimly--he thinks he can pick out two or three as being distinct, but they all blend together, becoming unintelligible by the time they reach his brain--and the faces that pass by him are blurs of black masks, red visors. He tries to move, and finds that his body won’t respond; he has no choice but to lay still, bloodshot eyes darting around in his head, trying to follow the movement of the people that surround him like flitting shadows.

Until there’s suddenly pain: a fist in his hair, pulling his head back until he’s forced to stare up into a visor that burns his eyes like fire, the red light searing into his brain.

“Gabriel Reyes. Blackwatch Commander.” The words are spoken slow, deliberate; Gabriel clings to every one, terror and dread becoming a rising tandem in his gut. The visor blinding him is painfully familiar, and yet he can’t place why. “You don’t know me, but I know you. I know what you’ve done, to me and my friends and perfect strangers...and we’re going to pay you back in spades. By the time we’re done, you’ll regret _ever_ joining Overwatch.”

Gabriel wants to argue--to tell this man that he doesn’t remember anything called Overwatch, that he doesn’t even know what Blackwatch is, or why this man thinks he commanded it. There’s been a mistake, he wants to say, There’s been a horrible, horrible mistake, please…

But when he opens his mouth to speak, all that escapes is a stammering, stuttering noise, a weak, dragging little, “A- _ahh_ …”

And the man looms closer then, the red of his visor becoming the only thing that Gabriel can see. He closes his eyes against the burn, a soft noise of pain leaving him before the man chuckles.

“We’re gonna kill you, _Commander Reyes_.” His fingers trace lightly down the side of Gabriel’s cheek, the fingerpads of his gloves coarse and textured against Gabriel’s sensitive, burned skin. “We’re gonna ruin you. Wreck you. And we’re gonna make sure that only the pieces of you that we want are what’s left behind.”

-x-

From the table under the fluorescent lights, he’s moved.

The room that the red visors put him in is dimly lit, a tiny thing; he’s thrown inside with his hands tied behind his back, and howls when his burns scrape along the cold concrete floor, when his broken body bounces against the ground. He tries to arc up, to escape the pain that weight causes his mangled skin; and it’s only when he’s rolled onto his side that he sees the soft glow of a small biotic field, set up in the corner.

The agony of dragging himself across the floor, wriggling through the dusty grime and pebbly grit toward the promise of relief and healing, is worth it when he’s finally curled up in the field’s warm light. Surrounded by the golden glow, he lays still and lets his eyes close as his body is gradually healed--the worst of his burns and cuts knit up tight, the breaks in his skin slowly closing. 

He falls asleep to the buzz of the biotic field dying out, and in his dreams he is restless, kicking and screaming as he sinks further into the grip of the cold black.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s easy to lose track of the days, when all Gabriel knows is darkness.

He spends his time in isolation, lying on the cold floor of his cell and curled up tight in an attempt to conserve any of his body heat; even though the biotic field healed the worst of his injuries, he still has to suffer through the lingering effects the explosion left on him. These come in waves--tremors that evolve into full-blown seizures and have him writhing on the concrete, sudden swathes of alarming blankness in his memory--and as horrible as they are, they do provide a brief relief from his the horror of his reality.

At least when he’s locked up and seizing, with wet warmth spreading between his thighs and the acrid stench of ammonia clogging up his nose, he can’t focus on the aching void of hunger in his belly.

Not that it really matters--because the seizures always end, the dissociation always passes. No matter how much Gabriel endures, at the end of it he’s always left vacant and empty and hurting, right back in the dark hell he cannot escape. 

When the cell door creaks open--hours? Days?--later, the light that spills in from the outside is blinding.

Gabriel welcomes it as a change from the suffocating black.

The men that march inside, however, are much less welcome. They grab Gabriel by his tied arms and haul him upright, leave his toes to scrabble against the floor as he’s all but carried from his cell; his feet drag against the ground and the guards do not care. They stay silent, unmoved by his weak little noises of pain--he tries to form words, objections, pleas, and they all are lost by the time they leave his lips--and it’s not long after that he lets his head drop, his dirty curls hanging in front of his half-open eyes, simply too tired to keep up the appearance of fighting.

When they drop him, Gabriel collapses to the ground. His knees slam into the floor and he cries out with the pain of it; and the sound is choked, cut off when a fist curls into his hair and jerks his head back sharply. 

“Gabriel Reyes.” 

The voice is low, a noise caught between a purr and a growl, and Gabriel doesn’t open his eyes when he hears it. He’s so tired, lethargic--but then there’s a sharp, open-handed slap across his face, and the voice goes dark, a wicked snarl. 

“Look at me when I talk to you, you piece of shit.”

So Gabriel forces his eyes to crack open, looks up blearily; and there’s a man standing there, his arms crossed over his chest and his hair slicked back with grease. He leers down at Gabriel with a curl to his lip, then sneers, “I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you? Been a few days since you last had a meal…”

He drops down, grabbing Gabriel’s chin between two thick fingers and turning his head this way and that, his eyes hooded as he looks him over. 

“Solid bone structure,” the man murmurs, talking to himself as he prods at Gabriel’s face, pulls down the skin under his eyes. “Bright eyes...nice, full lips. Cocksucking lips. Good.”

He runs his hand down Gabriel’s throat, patting him down--feeling out his collarbones, mapping the mass and thickness of his weakened, starved muscles, murmuring to himself about his findings. 

“Good abdominal structure...even ribcage. Strong, symmetric pelvic cradle…” 

When he reaches the spread of Gabriel’s thighs, the man pauses. Gabriel swallows and can hear his groggy heartbeat in his ears in the newfound silence.

The man’s chuckle shatters the quiet, and Gabriel flinches as his soft cock is grabbed in a calloused hand--lifted up, squeezed, moved around and inspected. Gabriel’s eyes stay fixed up on the ceiling, his cheeks burning with humiliation as he’s felt up, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Never had any problems with the ladies, did you, Reyes?” The man’s voice is viciously amused, loud and then barely undercut by a sudden, soft, metallic clinking noise as he fishes something out of his back pocket. “Well...maybe you did. But it wasn’t because of this, was it?”

Gabriel doesn’t answer--just screws his eyes shut tight, his fists clenching behind his back. The bite of cold metal around his cock is enough to startle him into trying to look down, but the hand in his hair holds fast; he’s kept with his head jerked upright as he feels something cool and constricting being fastened around his flaccid dick, locked tight at the base of his balls. When the fist in his hair finally releases he can look down, and stares vacantly at the sleek silver cage bound around the shaft of his soft cock--it gleams in the weak overhead light, and Gabriel’s shoulders hitch as he gapes at it.

“Do you like it?” The man asks, mirth in his voice as he stands upright again; before Gabriel can even open his mouth to reply, he’s loudly continuing, “It doesn’t matter, because that worm between your legs belongs to me now. _You_ belong to me, now. You understand, Reyes?”

Gabriel stares up at him blankly, struggling to process the man’s words--understand? Understand _what?_ \--but before he can start to ask, he’s blindsided by a harsh slap across his face strong enough to make his vision blur. The crack of the man’s palm across his cheek is loud enough to have his ears ringing.

“I asked you a _question_ , you sack of shit,” the man snarls, raising his hand again in a silent threat; and Gabriel nods before he thinks about it, just to avoid the pain he knows is coming.

“Y-yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking and hoarse with disuse--and the man smiles, his hand slowly lowering.

“That’s what I thought.” He glances up, back to the guards still standing behind Gabriel, and all traces of amusement leave him as he falls right back into his businessman attitude. “Take him, get him something to eat and drink. Wash him.

We’ve got a lot of work to do, before he’s ready for the block.”


	3. Chapter 3

Gabriel thought that his time in the cell--locked up in the suffocating darkness, entirely isolated and starving--was bad; and he knows, in the part of his functioning brain that isn’t blocking out the worst of his torment, that it was. 

But being out of the cage is even worse.

He’s fitted with a length of coarse rope looped around his neck--led by it, wobbling on his feet as he struggles to keep his balance, following the two guards down a long, narrow hallway. He tries to look around, to get some kind of handle on his surroundings, see if he can recognize anything; and his vision blurs every time he moves his head, turning the walls into nothing but dark blurs. He can hear the guards snapping orders at him every time they jerk his leash, but their voices sound distant, unintelligible. 

He tries to remember what happened, to bring him here. His memory is nothing but a swath of blank blackness.

With more insistent tugs to his leash, he’s led into a wide, tiled room--vacant, save for two showerheads on the wall and a drain in the floor. A solid-looking rack of various bottles hangs off the wall under the showerheads, and it’s the base of this rack that Gabriel’s leash is tied to.

His hair is grabbed in a tight fist, jerked backward until his neck strains. “You stink,” a guard tells him, snarling in his ear.

And then the water starts.

Cold as ice and high-pressure, it rains down over his naked body like a shower of needles. He jerks instinctively, flinching away from the pain and the chill, and is half-choked when the rope looped around his neck is pulled taut by the motion.

“Stay still.” More hands come to him, then--rubbing over his body with a coarse cloth, slathering him in a soap that burns his nose. His hair is scrubbed roughly, soap tugged through the tangled curls with no regard for the whimpers it pulls from him; he flinches when it dribbles down his face, and screws his eyes shut tightly to protect them from the stinging.

Not that it matters much, when one of those hands leaves his belly and instead mops over his face--rubbing over his lips, his nose, his eyes. Soapy fingers push into his mouth, scrub over his tongue and teeth, and his weak noises of protest are drowned out by harsh barks of laughter.

“Shut up, filthy whore,” one of the guards snaps, grabbing at Gabriel’s chin to hold him still while his mouth his probed. “You haven’t brushed your teeth in days. You should be thanking me--go on. Do it.” The fingers hook sharply, pressing the middle of Gabriel’s tongue down to the bottom of his mouth and pinning in there despite how he tries to squirm. “Say thank you, whore. I wanna hear it.”

Gabriel tries; because it’s easier than fighting, because he’s scared, because he’s too tired to keep trying to win these little battles of dignity. But the words stay cloyed up in his throat, not translating from his brain to his mouth--after a minute of struggling, a sharp slap to his cheek, he finally manages to gurgle out some noise that sounds close enough to appease the guard. He pulls his fingers from Gabriel’s mouth and wipes them on his beard.

“Dumb slut.”

They keep him standing there, tied up like livestock as he’s roughly washed under the cold water. When they deem him sufficiently cleaned, he’s backed up against the wall; one guard kneels between his legs, and another holds him still as he’s shaved with a disposable razor, until his balls and groin are smooth. The blades nick at his skin, tugging and making him wince--but the guard’s hold is like iron, keeping him from pulling away.

“Smooth-shaven whores go for more on the block,” one guard says, and it’s only when the other laughs, adds in, “You see the muscles on this one? Those thick thighs, that fat ass? He’ll go for a pretty penny at auction” that Gabriel starts to get an inkling of what he’s being prepared for.

“A-ah...auc...tion?” he echoes, struggling to say just the one word; he knows it should be simple, but his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate. It’s like there’s a block between his brain, lips, and tongue--all three working against one another, instead of together.

“Yeah, dumbass. Auction.” The guard shaving him stands up and grabs Gabriel’s face, squeezing his cheeks together before lathering him up with a handful of cream and starting to shave the hair off his chin. “Why do you think the boss was so keen on getting you? You’ve fucked with our industry one too many times, Reyes--so now you’ll be a personal part of it.”

The leer he pulls is an ugly thing, a wrinkling of his lips closer to a snarl than a smile; and although Gabriel tries to parse some kind of meaning from his words, certain that they hold some significance, he simply can’t puzzle it out.

The fog in his brain is too thick. He can’t remember anything past starvation and darkness.

After his shower and his shaving, Gabriel is untied from the wall and led from the room; left to drip dry as he’s fed a sandwich of stale bread and hard cheese, as two cups of warm tap water are poured into his mouth. He struggles to swallow both.

After his paltry meal he’s moved yet again, following the tugs at his leash as he staggers through the hallway. He’s given up on wondering where he’s being taken--can’t really find it in himself to care much, anymore--but he still hates the surge of panic he feels when he’s led into what looks like a garage, and toward the large van parked in the middle of it.

“In, dog.”

And he obeys--because it’s easier than struggling, because he lacks the strength or fortitude to keep fighting anymore. He climbs up into the van and is immediately grabbed by another guard, forced down onto his knees with a gasp of pain. By the time he’s made his vision focus again, he can feel something cold and sharp pressing against his forehead; and he blinks once, twice, then finds himself staring down the barrel of a .45.

“You’re going to sit nice and quiet, while we take a little trip.” The guard shoves the muzzle of the pistol against Gabriel harshly, and smirks at his soft whimper. “And if you don’t, fuck the losses--I’ll blow your brains out, right here and now.”

Gabriel closes his eyes; he doesn’t have to look to know the guard is serious. 

So he shuffles his knees under him and leans back against the wall, and swallows down his fear as he settles in for the ride.


	4. Chapter 4

The ride is miserable.

The back of the van is sweltering, and Gabriel is almost thankful for his clean-shaven face when the beads of sweat roll off his chin, drip down onto the floor. With no kind of restraint system, he’s bounced around helplessly as the van drives over potholes and bumps, and with his hands still tied behind his back it’s a struggle for him to keep from toppling over every time. The bare metal of the van’s floor burns his knees as he slides across it, chafes his skin when he tries to broaden his stance.

But when he’s abruptly jolted to a halt, he finds himself wishing the ride would never end.

The door’s thrown open, letting blinding-bright light spill in, and Gabriel huddles against the back wall--but when his leash is grabbed and jerked he has to stumble forward, half bowed-over even when he’s finally pulled out of the vehicle onto cool concrete.

His eyes dart around, half-wild, as he tries to make sense of his surroundings; he thinks he’s in some kind of garage, maybe, being led down a hall that’s narrow enough to make him feel like he can’t breathe. The floor beneath his feet is cold and flat, and the lighting overhead is dim enough that it doesn’t hurt his eyes, but makes him strain to see.

Until they reach a door.

As soon as he lays his eyes on it, Gabriel’s gut tenses with unease--he plants his feet and tries to throw his weight back against his leash, grunting quietly as he fights against the guard pulling him. He has no idea why, but something in his very subconscious is screaming at him, telling him that no matter what he cannot go through that door.

Not that the guard seems to care.

“Come _on_ , you dumb bitch!” he snarls, giving the leash a savage yank and breaking whatever hold Gabriel’s abused, starved muscles have; he staggers forward, his shoulders hunched and breath gasping, and follows the man through the door.

It takes him right out onto a stage, of sorts--Gabriel halts, squinting against the bright lights that shine down upon him from the ceiling as he tries to make out anything else about the room from his vantage point in the center. All he can see is the milling shadows that move discreetly beyond the stage--the faceless buyers, numbering well over a hundred--and he follows numbly as he’s tugged to the center of the platform, having to work hard to not stumble over his own feet.

_“For closing bids tonight, our main attraction!”_

The announcer’s voice rings out over the intercom, startling Gabriel and making him wince; he hunches his shoulders up and tries to coil in on himself, to hide his naked body from the countless eyes that stare at him, but another jerk to his leash has him staggering forward again, closer to the stage’s edge.

“Spread your legs and look pretty,” his guard growls, before fisting a hand in Gabriel’s hair to jerk his head backward and bare the vulnerable lines of his throat to the room. The spotlights above him swim in his blurry vision, make his eyes water. “We spent a lot of time and money on you. You’re not going to waste it.”

And before Gabriel can say anything, the intercom booms again overhead, so loud it’s a struggle to even think.

_“We have here Gabriel Matías Reyes, hero of the Omnic Crisis and former leader of the very black ops organization that once tried to take down our ring!”_

The crowd cheers; and Gabriel’s guard releases his hair, grabs at his shoulders to bodily turn him around. His hands dive between Gabriel’s legs, pulling his cheeks apart to show off his most hidden place--and when he’s forcibly bent by a harsh hand between his shoulders, held doubled over and exposed, the crowd shrieks in delight. 

_“He’s a good, sturdy specimen,”_ the voice over the intercom continues, sounding pleased. _“Strong, but stupid--pliable, ready for a good master with a firm hand to teach him some manners. Already cock-trained and he comes with a pretty cage for his prick!”_

Gabriel’s jerked upright again, whipped around so the guard can grab at his caged dick and lift it, showing off the glint of the metal to the gathered buyers. Gabriel swallows down his shame and screws his eyes shut tight, and tries not to flinch as his balls are lifted one by one, examined and held out for inspection.

_“Such a fine creature--and with such an interesting, ironic backstory! Who will give me fifty thousand, to own a piece of failed history?”_

-x-

After the auction, he’s taken. Moved yet again.

He doesn’t know where--the burlap bag over his head is too thick to see out of, and muffles any noise he might hear along the way--but as he’s frog-marched by two armored bodies his feet stumble over a cold tile floor, and he can feel a chill that makes his bare body shiver. His cry of pain when his knees hit the floor is gasping and weak; and when the bag is taken off his head, a hand fists in his hair and cranes his head up, has him stare helplessly at the man that looms over him.

He’s dressed in white, with a distinct triangular scar on his left cheek, his eyes a dark, beady blue. Gabriel can’t help but feel like he _knows_ this man, some part of his subconscious screaming out that he should recognize who this is; but as he tries to remember, tries to frantically string together the pieces in his head, everything comes up blank. 

The man smiles at him--a sharp, wicked thing--and Gabriel’s confusion is lost in the face of his fear.

“Well, well, well. And who do we have here?” The man reaches out and grabs Gabriel’s chin between two fingers, turning his head from side to side to look over the healing cuts and wounds gouged into his face. “The once-proud Gabriel Reyes...do you know who I am?”

Gabriel tries to speak--has a million things he wants to say, everything from demands to be let go to pleas for mercy. But when he opens his mouth, the most he can manage is a stuttering, “A-ah...ahm…”

The man laughs at him then, a mean and hateful thing as he roughly releases Gabriel’s chin. “That’s what I thought. That explosion scrambled your head all up, didn’t it?” He delivers a sharp, stinging flick to the middle of Gabriel’s forehead, and chortles at the way he flinches back, swaying on his knees to keep his balance. “Used to be the Commander of Blackwatch...and now look at you. Too stupid to string a sentence together. Do you even know who I am?”

Gabriel stares up at him, his jaw hanging slightly ajar, eyes bleary as he tries to focus--but in the end, it’s his silence that says everything. The man laughs again, and Gabriel feels tiny and weak, scared in a way he never has before.

“That’s alright, Reyes.” The man’s hand pats over Gabriel’s head, heavy and clumsy like he might pet a dog. “We’ll teach you everything you need to know, don’t you worry about that. You be a good boy for me, and we’ll get along just fine.”


	5. Chapter 5

Under the rule of his new master--Gabriel is told to refer to him only as Sir or Master Evan, and after a few brutal slaps that turn his head for stuttering and stammering over the man’s titles Gabriel decides it would be easier to just never speak again--Gabriel finds himself caught in yet another maelstrom of changes.

He’s brought to the house that will be his new torture chamber in the back of a van, blessedly free of any restraints save for the twine wrapped between his teeth in a makeshift gag and the rope collar snug around his throat. Maybe Master Evan has realized he’s beyond fighting his fate at this point, or he just doesn’t care--either way, Gabriel is glad of it, as he rubs his wrists with his fingertips and tries to make the ache in his limbs go away.

He’s so tired, weary down to his bones. And the worst of his torment hasn’t even started yet.

Gabriel lets his head rest against the back of the van and folds his hands in his lap, trying to relax enough to get some sleep; with Master Evan’s cruel greeting still lingering in the back of his mind, he has no idea when he’ll get the chance to rest again. 

No sooner has he closed his eyes than the van comes to a stop, sending Gabriel lurching forward.

By the time he’s straightened himself up again, the door is being opened. Gabriel brings a hand up to his face to try to block the blinding-bright light that pours in, and chokes as he’s jerked forward by the leash attached to his collar, hobbling forward on his hands and knees to avoid being dragged.

“Get inside,” he’s told, the voice low and hateful as it’s snarled in his ear, and Gabriel hastens to obey--staggering forward as quickly as he can, arms windmilling as he fights to keep his balance while moving quickly. He’s led past the threshold of a huge wooden door, and only has time to notice a few basic things about his environment--the high ceilings, gleaming hardwood floors, the twin staircases in the back of the room--before he’s being tugged to the side, immediately right back out of the entry hall. 

He ends up in a tiled white room, where the same guard that pulled him from the van washes him down with water cold enough to have him shivering where he stands and scrubs through his shorn hair with harsh fingers. All Gabriel can do is huddle against the wall and accept the treatment, flinch when the water stings at his skin and muffle his noises of discomfort by biting down on the gag. 

The guard won’t meet his eyes--but the look on his face, when Gabriel can see it, is something he can’t place, something caught between pity and disgust but just repulsed enough to have Gabriel’s stomach churning uneasily.

He doesn’t get very long to mull over it, however. As soon as he’s deemed clean enough he’s tugged out of the showers and dried with a coarse towel, and as he stands there, hugging himself and quaking with the damp towel around his shoulders, the guard pulls a handful of clothes out of the closet.

“Here,” he says, tossing the bundle of clothing onto the bench behind Gabriel and sitting down heavily across from him. “Get dressed, and be quick about it. I don’t want any lip about the clothes, either. I’m just doing what the boss told me to do.”

Gabriel blinks down at the pile of clothes and tries to be optimistic--how bad could it be, really? 

His question is answered when the first thing his shaking hand pulls from the pile is a see-through string thong, made of sheer red lace.

The rest of his ensemble is no better. Gabriel is led from the shower room with the thong riding up the crack of his ass and a plaid skirt barely covering the bulge of his soft, caged cock; white stockings strain around the thick muscles of his thighs and the blouse he’s in is tight enough to make his pecs push together, ending in a knot right above the dip of his navel.

Gabriel hates it.

He hates the way the stockings chafe his thighs and he hates the way the servants cleaning the giant house look up and stare; he can feel their gazes lingering over him as he’s led through the corridors, and instead of trying to challenge their stares with his own he just keeps his gaze on the floor, watching his bare feet as they shuffle and stumble over the cool tile.

He hates them.

The guard takes him up a flight of stairs, down a hall, around a corner--it’s not hard for Gabriel to lose track of just where he’s being led, and by the time he’s stopped outside an open door he’s already panting. Master Evan shows up at the door, a slight smile pulling at his thin lips as he takes Gabriel’s leash in hand, and Gabriel swallows his fear to walk into the room.

“Welcome to your new home, pet,” Master Evan says, guiding Gabriel into the sun-lit office with a broad hand on the small of his back. “Now that you’re going to live here with me, there’s a few rules I think you need to learn.”

And so Gabriel’s lessons begin.

The first--the most humiliating--is his greeting. Under his master’s watchful eye Gabriel is instructed on just how to present himself when he’s faced by his betters: to drop to his knees and look down at the floor, while he pulls up the front of his miniskirt enough to show off the bulge of his caged cock, gleaming under the see-through lace thong that hugs his hips. He’s to stay there, quiet and still, until someone deigns to allow him permission to move.

Meals are another chore; Gabriel is taught how to properly serve the food that the cooks prepare, and offers Master Evan his plates with a bow and a smile that cannot be anything but forced. While his Master eats Gabriel is to be on his knees between the man’s thighs, mouth wrapped around the length of his cock and utterly silent.

Gabriel is permitted whatever scraps are left over on Master Evan’s plate when he has finished his meal, and nothing more.

 _“You can have more to eat when you’ve earned it,”_ he’s told, as Master Evan pats over his head; the thick rings that adorn his fingers feel like knives embedding in Gabriel’s skull. _“I think that’s good motivation for you to do well in your new line of work.”_

And after living a week surviving only on the scraps of a man who hardly lets any food leave his maw, Gabriel is inclined to agree.


	6. Chapter 6

Gabriel survives under Master Evan for the longest four years of his life. 

During those years he suffers like he’s never suffered before--spending night after night in humiliation and pain, with his dignity stripped from him piece by piece, his pride beaten out of him every time he dares to try to cling to a single scrap of humanity, no matter how small. He gets a new cage, one bigger than what he wears on his cock, big enough to hold his body; and every night that he doesn’t spend tied to Master Evan’s bedpost is spent lying on the cold plastic floor, shivering and surrounded by bars with barely enough room to turn around.

His outfits vary, in the sense that they are different shades of the same red-faced humiliation--thongs that get swallowed in the crack of his ass and lacy pieces of lingerie that strain to hold his muscle, sheer pink blouses or tube tops that barely cover his nipples. Some days he’s given nothing to wear, and is led through the house with only his cock cage on; after the stinging shame fades and he’s focused on his chores, he stops minding so much, and comes to appreciate the air moving across his bare body despite the chill.

Through it all, his lessons continue. 

Under Master Evan’s heavy hands and watchful gaze, Gabriel is taught how to behave--how to kneel and bow and crawl, how to make himself small and pliant to the wishes of others, how to present himself in ways that make it clear just how insignificant he really is. He learns quickly that even the servants in the mansion view him the same way; instead of having sympathy toward his plight, they relish in having someone who is of an even lower rank than themselves to bully and lord over. 

They make his life just as difficult as Master Evan does, and yet Gabriel survives.

Perhaps a little too well, as he finds himself standing on the auction block again.

It’s just as terrifying, the second time around--standing all alone on stage with his hands chained to the floor, staring out into an endless sea of blurry faces and shivering. The clothes Master Evan dressed him in do little to keep him warm--just a t-shirt that’s cut off at his nipple line and emblazoned with _‘bonita’_ in a flowing script, cut-off denim shorts that stop just shy of covering his ass and with a waist low-slung enough to bare the black strings of the thong that hugs his hip bones--and Gabriel wishes he could move his arms enough to hug himself, to cover the exposed flesh of the bottom of his pectorals, to save a little warmth. 

The auctioneer sounds less excited about his return-- _”Who will give me thirty thousand, to own a black-ops agent?”_ \--and with as miserable as he feels Gabriel can’t exactly blame him. But the crowd seems just as interested as ever, and as the bids continue to climb Gabriel loses track of them, lets himself disengage from the auction and instead wander in his mind.

He tries to remember a life before this; tries to think of anything that isn’t fire and pain and humiliation, tries to think of a Gabriel Reyes who was what everyone said: a smart and strong black-ops commander, someone to be proud of. He tries to make himself remember anything about himself, before auctions and torment--and all he can think of, all his mind keeps coming back to, is blue.

It’s beyond frustrating. Gabriel blinks hard to get rid of the tears that make his bare feet blurry.

He doesn’t even notice when the auctioning stops; it’s only the jerk of his leash being tugged that yanks him out of his broken memories, has him staggering off stage. He’s led through the maze of corridors and to a small cage, and ushered inside with little flourish.

“Your new master will come collect you when the auction is over,” his handler says, locking the cage door with a loud snap. He grins at Gabriel, showing off his gleaming, yellowed teeth. “And may god help you when he does.”

He leaves Gabriel alone after that, walking away and disappearing down the winding hallways--Gabriel watches him for as long as he can, and it’s only when even the man’s footsteps have faded to silence that he lets himself rock forward, resting his tired body against the cage bars. He wraps his arms around himself in an effort to conserve some kind of body heat, and rocks himself slowly to and fro, his eyes shut tight to keep out the suffocating darkness. Between the soothing motion and the quiet--two things he’s been denied for years--it isn’t long until his exhausted body is drifting, slowly fading into the sleep of the bone-tired and weary.

He dreams of running through rolling farmland under a clear blue sky. He can hear cardinals singing in the distance, and when he looks to his right he finds himself holding hands with the golden sun.

He’s warm here, happy. And he never wants to leave.


	7. Chapter 7

Jack Morrison has spent eight years as the leader of Blackwatch.

Ever since Gabriel’s disappearance one frosty January night, he’s been a different man, leading a different life--yielding his position as Strike-Commander to Captain Amari so he could take on the role of Blackwatch Commander, scrambling to try to pick up the pieces Gabriel had left behind in his untimely departure.

And today, everything he’s been working toward for the past five years has come to a head.

Under Gabriel’s watchful eye and domineering command, Blackwatch had managed to all but shut down the primary human trafficking ring in the eastern hemisphere nearly a decade ago; and yet after his disappearance, reports of the ring started to pop up again, tiny blips on the radar ruining Gabriel’s legacy. After may a sleepless night and literal weeks of following dead ends, Jack has finally pinned down a prospect that he feels confident will yield results, and tonight is the night that it all is due to pan out.

Cerons Jansons--the head of the largest international human trafficking mafia that Overwatch has ever tagged--is a hard man to find, and yet when he sits before him, Jack can’t help but feel disappointed.

He’s shorter than Jack pictured, with a mean, narrow face and slicked-back black hair that’s turned grey and thin around his hairline; his shoulders are broad and his torso tall, both only accented by the large throne-like chair he sits in. Two of his guards stand on either side behind him with pistols at their waists, and as much as they try to be intimidating, Jack finds himself less moved by them and more horrified by the...creature currently kneeling between Cerons’ legs.

He might’ve once been a strong man--he has the wide shoulders and thick thighs of someone who’s clearly used to a life of labour, of working hard and earning the muscle for it--and yet now he is naked, on his knees, with long, heavy chains tying his wrists and throat to the thick legs of Cerons’ chair. The skin of his shoulders and back is marred with lash marks: some old, raised scars, others angry red, irritated, painfully new. His hair is long and dark, the unruly curls tangled and knotted up with filth and grime like he’s gone weeks without a shower; but Cerons pets them with one broad hand, smoothing over the dirty mats and guiding the man’s head to continue in its slow bobbing motion in his lap.

Jack has seen it enough to recognize the movements of a blowjob, but the forced servitude, the emptiness behind it, makes his skin crawl. He swallows down his bile and stares into Cerons’ beady eyes, instead of at the man servicing him.

“So tell me, Mr. Morrison…” Cerons moves his foot, using the heel of his shoe to grind down on the soft length of the slave’s cock lying stretched out along the floor--and the result is instant, a shockwave that ripples down that bare spine and has him moving, swallowing the cock in his mouth deeper. “Your missing commander...have you found him yet? Rumour has it that he’s been killed…”

“Our search for Gabriel will not stop until he is found,” Jack says, voice sharp, and as soon as he speaks the slave between Cerons’ legs moves, lurching backward toward Jack like he’s been shocked. “What--!”

“He’s being disobedient. Excuse us.” Cerons snaps his fingers and the two men on either side of him surge into action. One immediately drops into a crouch behind the broken man, jamming two fingers up into the puffy red gape of his hole and ruthlessly pistoning them, searching for the abused prostate; the other grabs for the small control taped to his thick thigh, and one flick of the button has a sharp scream leaving the slave, his exposed cock twitching and jerking with the electric current pulsing through the rod nestled deep within it. 

He barely gets out a few seconds of screaming, however, before Cerons has a fistful of his long, dirty hair and is tugging him down, stifling his cries of protest on the thick meat of his cock. Jack can only stare in horrified disgust as the slave’s body is rocked by the stimulation, his muscles jerking uncontrollably and seizing under his skin, eyes rolling back in his head to only show white. The noises that leave him are beyond anything Jack can recognize coming from a human before--gurgling, choking things that tell clearly of his torment, screams and keens muffled by the cock in his throat--and when he does finally collapse, unconscious, against Cerons’ lap, it’s with a small puddle of pale yellow gathered under him. Both the guards who had been tormenting him quickly stand with twin noises of distaste, and Cerons tuts in amusement, pulling the tortured man off his cock and manhandling him to turn around.

Jack can’t keep his gaze from wandering, once he’s faced with the front of the sex slave; and the sight is just as horrifically lewd as he thought it would be. He can’t help from staring at the thick metal collar locked around the slave’s throat, the heavy D-rings pierced into his nipples, the ladder that climbs up his cock to be capped by a thick Prince Albert--he’s only pulled away from staring by Ceron’s voice, his light, taunting little, “I heard you liked a certain type of men when you were young, Commander. I have a bitch too.”

He runs his hand down the slave’s chest, over the shaved-hairless expanse of his belly, and grabs at the soft meat of the slave’s pierced cock, giving it a squeeze and pulling a weak groan from the man, making his eyes flutter as he returns to some sort of tormented consciousness. Cerons leans down to murmur in the slave’s ear, and Jack stiffens in his seat; when Cerons straightens again, it’s with a smile that is wicked and vile. He gives the slave a shove forward.

“Would you like to try it?”

No, Jack thinks, swallowing down the bile in his throat as the tortured creature weakly crawls over to him, reaching for his fly on the boss’s command. Gabriel was strong, Gabriel was beautiful, Gabriel was too stubborn to ever let anything like this ever happen to him--not like this wreck of a human being, this empty shell who reeks of sex and piss and moves with a resigned hopelessness.

“I think our negotiations are finished,” Jack says, all but leaping to his feet as the sex slave’s shaking fingers brush against the thigh of his slacks; it’s close, too close, and the look on Cerons’ face says he knows it. “Until next time, Mr. Jansons.”

Catching him and bringing down the ring will have to wait until another time--because all Jack can think of as he hurries down the hallway is how those dirty fingers were the same sunkissed shade of copper that Jack used to kiss over, how the scars and slope of the creature’s jaw were so similar to Gabriel’s...

 _No,_ Jack tells himself vehemently; if nothing else, because he can’t stand the thought of it being true. Gabriel is dead, Gabriel is gone, and Gabriel is not some ruined being made wrecked and helpless, resigned to a life sucking their enemy’s cock. 

_No. They are completely different._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more addition: Resolution.


	8. Chapter 8

A week later Jack comes back, tracking Cerons down again--but this time when he leaves, it’s with Cerons in handcuffs and Gabriel held securely in his arms.

His lover is far more broken than Jack could have imagined, even in his worst nightmares; between the aphasia that leaves him stumbling over his words and the scars, the wounds, that mar his beautiful skin, the trained flinches and terrified meekness beaten into him, he’s a far cry from the Gabriel that Jack knew, the Gabriel that he fell in love with. 

But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that now Gabriel is with him, Gabriel is safe, and Gabriel can start to heal.

So Jack takes him away--hangs up the red and black and calls himself retired, turns over control to the youngbloods that have more time, less bad memories, and fewer obligations in their lives--and resets his sights to focus on Gabriel, and Gabriel alone.

He finds them a house in Indiana--somewhere quiet, peaceful and isolated, back on the farmland that Jack grew up on. The house isn’t huge but the driveway is long, and the crackle of gravel under the wheels of Jack’s truck sets him at ease, reminds him of going home.

He glances over to Gabriel, asleep in the passenger’s seat with his head resting against the window, his long hair pulled back into a bun and the bruises, cuts, wounds on his face finally starting to heal, and tells himself this will be their sanctuary. 

And for a while, it seems true: they move into the new space and Gabriel starts to make some kind of progress. He starts bathing regularly again, he gains back some of the weight that his captivity had taken from him, and as the seasons change Jack can see the sallowness of his skin fade and some of the light come back into his pretty eyes. It makes him feel accomplished, eases some of the guilt that eats at him when he spends too long thinking about Gabriel being kidnapped--and as fall turns to winter and Gabriel’s smile returns, his laugh graces Jack’s ears once again, and Jack starts to let himself think that he’s finally found somewhere safe where he can tend to Gabriel and not have to worry about how the outside world might prey on him and his new weaknesses.

Until the day he comes home to find the house empty.

He’d been out shopping--Gabriel rarely liked to venture into town, and Jack had no qualms with leaving him alone in the house for his short trips--and his first clue that something is amiss comes when he walks up to the door and finds it jimmied open, swinging in the crisp autumn wind. Jack is immediately on guard; hunkers down a little and slowly walks inside, eyes darting around to scan the place for anything else wrong.

“...Gabe? Are you here, sweetheart?”

Silence answers him. Jack walks further inside, and when he sees the state of the living room--with the furniture overturned, the vase of forget-me-nots and white roses shattered on the floor, one of the curtains pulled askew--the shock of it has him rooted to the spot. The groceries fall to the floor, forgotten.

“Gabe!” Jack shouts, breaking into a sprint to search through the house--first the dining room, then the bedroom, the bathrooms, each and every closet--and each empty space fills him with more and more terror. “Gabriel! Gabe! Where are you?!”

But his voice rings out in the house with no reply. Jack returns to the living room, feeling like his bones might just shake out of his skin, his body quivering with the need to do something, to find some clue; and that’s when his gaze settles on a holopad, set neatly on top of the overturned couch.

Jack’s grabbed it before he even realizes he’s moved. His shaking fingers fumble over the buttons until he can turn it on--and the screen comes to life with a picture of Gabriel on his knees, his long hair held knotted in someone’s fist and his eyes wide, wet with tears.

Jack’s heart lurches into his throat. He sets his jaw and presses play.

The video opens with a shot of his home, from the outside--Jack’s infuriated to see himself on the film, leaving out the front door and getting into his truck to go shopping. He wants to reach into the video and slap himself, yell at himself for being so stupid and leaving Gabriel alone.

But he can’t. All he can do is watch the truck pull out of the drive, and stare at his own reflection when the screen goes black.

When the film turns back on, it’s to a panning shot of the living room. 

Gabriel sits by the window in the loveseat, curled up with a blanket on his lap and his head resting against the back cushion as he peacefully dozes. His hair is long--Jack can’t bring himself to cut it, when he sees how skittish Gabriel gets as soon as the scissors come out--and tumbles around his shoulders, a silky dark brown that shines in the sunlight now that it’s taken care of properly. 

He’s beautiful--and then his eyes snap open, and the peaceful look on his face changes, immediately, to something horrified.

The camera follows as Gabriel leaps up off the loveseat and tries to run from the room; but there’s too many people for him to escape from. No sooner has he made it to the hallway than there’s a man tackling him to the ground, and Gabriel’s cry of pain and fright is lost in the cheers and guffaws from the intruders. The camera is jostled as the filmer comes closer, zooms in on Gabriel’s face and the tears that pool in his eyes, the way his shoulders heave--but then it’s knocked to the floor as Gabriel surges up with a scream, bodily throwing the man off him. The shot goes sideways as the camera falls to the floor, and all Jack can see is Gabriel’s feet running, followed by two pairs of boots.

He’s still a warrior, still a fighter, even after all he’s gone through. Jack feels like he could cry for his brave, strong lover.

But he has to blink the tears away, has to focus; has to try to glean some kind of information from this video, hear some voice he can recognize or see some telling symbol. The camera is picked up and Jack can hear, distantly, a few thunderous punches, some yelling that makes his skin crawl--then the camera is swinging around again and he can see Gabriel, scrabbling at the floor as he’s dragged back down the hallway by his ankles, fresh blood on his temple and one of his eyes starting to swell up.

Still he fights, still he struggles. Jack has to bite his knuckles to silence his sob.

He winces when Gabriel is bodily picked up by three of the intruders and thrown onto the couch--the way his body lands has to be painful, but he doesn’t even have time to handle it before he’s being grabbed again, the loose pajama pants all but torn from his hips. One of the men settles behind him on his knees and jerks Gabriel up with a leer at the camera, and spits down on his hand before he grabs at Gabriel’s ass. 

That’s where Jack has to stop--he can’t watch as the men fuck Gabriel, one after another, can’t watch the resistence leave Gabriel’s body with every new intrusion he’s forced to take. Jack only looks up when the sounds of moaning and crying have stopped, and blinks back his tears to focus on the masked man currently staring into the camera.

 _“You’ll never find your bitch again,”_ the man on the video declares, before he grins and the screen goes dark. Jack stares at it for a moment as something deep inside him cracks, then takes a deep breath and straightens up, entirely oblivious to the bags of groceries spilled across the floor.

It’s happened once before--but it won’t happen again. 

He will not let them take Gabriel from him.

Jack turns on his heel and heads outside; he grabs his rifle from the hall closet as he goes, and tells himself it’s time to get to work.


End file.
